ANTHEMICRONICON: BOOK OF AGES (AMERICAN IDOL RPF), [PG-13] - CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER TWO:
In which Archuleta has a dream about the future. The Anthemic manage get the scrying song of the Chronomicon to work. Arch and Cook spend a day at the races in Coney Island, and later spend Cook’s winnings at the Opera, where Arch meets the mysterious Christophe Daughtry.
House Nineteen, Friday, __ October 1901
David Archuleta knew he was asleep in his narrow journeyman's bed in the heart of House Nineteen.
At the same time he's deep in the bowels of the Utah mountainside where he was born. The bonfire throws the craggy, volcanic walls of the cave into stark relief, casts grotesque shadows across the faces of the men around him, naked bodies daubed with animal blood. He knows he should recognize them: neighbors and homesteaders, ranchers and merchants. But all of them were strangers this night.
Hail to the Great Silver Bear of the Mountain. Hail to Usurus, Brothers of the Circle. He lies sleeping beyond R'yleigh. Let us give him honor. Hail.
"Brother Archuleta, bring it forth," he hears someone intone, and he watches his own hands (large, hairy-backed hands) haul a snuffling animal on a chain into the circle of the men. It looks like a bear, barely a week or two old, but it’s deformed; it has more joints than it should, and it has a second mouth on the other side of its snout.
There's a tall figure at the makeshift altar, on which rests a knife and a wide, liquid-filled bowl. As he wrestles the bear onto the stone, he looks into the bowl and sees his father's face.
Hail Usurus. He lies sleeping. Let us give him honor. Let us see him, until he comes again.
The men chant. There's a flash of steel, and blood, and the screaming of a dying animal.
And everything moves in slow motion; the world rending. Claws and fangs and redness, and a two-headed god rises, rears its head and roars into the endless cave...
…Archuleta jerked awake in a sweaty tangle of sheets. He'd had the same dream every night since he'd come to the New State of York with the Chronomicon.
It was strange he wasn't more disturbed about the dream. He'd grown up in the mountains, set amid the great salt flats, where people still talked about the gods of the earth and sky, and after a day of cattle herding and farming, about animal sacrifice. His father, who'd come over the plains from across the Hispanic border, had maintained an altar in their simple home. His mom and four siblings had thought nothing of giving thanks to the gods of the mountains in preference to the Christian Christ-figure hawked by the schoolmarms in the Murray schoolroom and the gaunt-cheeked preacher at his Sunday pulpit.
He hadn't seen his father since he'd started his journeyman training at Salt Lake, and now he was here in York City he couldn't wire home easily; it took the mail weeks to get to the Archuleta homestead from the main Salt Lake postal office as it was. And what was he going to ask - So, Father, do you really follow a cult of animal-sacrificing worshippers of the Great Bear? No. The week had been strange enough.
He wasn't at all used to being in the State of York, either. The streets were filthy and crowded, the tenement buildings so tall, the City students and teachers gruff and cynical - everything was so different from the peace and open spaces of home, which he found he missed with a sudden, yearning ache he could almost taste.
Around him, his fellow journeymen were stirring. Archuleta sighed and got out of bed. He was used to starting his day with a brisk run in the cold morning air, but he had no idea where there was to run here in York City, with its smog and squalid, teeming masses.
He settled for a cold wash in the communal bathhouse, the rattling of the modern pipes an unheard-of luxury. He rested his head against the side of the tub and tried to curb his homesickness.
He eventually wandered into the dining hall, where the students were abuzz with the latest gossip. It seemed the Anthemic had been sent on a secret Guild mission to the bars of the Bowery last night, and David Cook, the Anthemic's lead songcaster, had been critically stabbed and lay near death.
Archuleta froze in the act of digging into his breakfast cakes. He'd spoken to Cook last night; he remembered Cook's smile, his warm green eyes, his casual offer to take Archuleta out to see the sights of the City - and after that he had headed out into a night filled with knives.
Suddenly, breakfast didn't appeal to him anymore. Archuleta got up and walked around the dining hall until he spotted Cook's blond Second, wearing an anonymous black shirt and trousers, clan insignia rings and jewelry gleaming from his ears and lower lip. There was a purpling bruise across his jaw.
Tiemann was sitting at High Table with Masters Cowell and Jackson in their full House dress. Beside him was a slender, dark-haired man whom Archuleta recognized as Andrew Skib, the Anthemic's rhythm stringcaster. Skib had his arm around Tiemann's waist and looked for the world like he wanted to climb into Tiemann's waistcoat.
Much to his own surprise, Archuleta found that none of those things proved to be a deterrent. He walked over and sat himself down on the other end of the bench from Tiemann. As the four men turned to stare at him, he asked, "Mr. Tiemann, I heard about Mr. Cook. Is he all right?"
Jackson and Cowell exchanged glances, but Arch had only eyes for Tiemann; he realized he was holding his breath for Tiemann's response.
Tiemann's blue eyes narrowed. Then he said, slowly, "Archuleta, right? Saw you talkin' to Cook last night. He's gonna be fine, took a scratch to the arm is all."
"Can I see him?" Archuleta didn't realize what he'd said until he'd said it, and he felt himself flushing hotly. Cook had come to his rescue when the Maroon had attacked in Central Park, had been kind to him and offered to show him York City. The thought that Cook wasn't in fact mortally wounded filled him with immense relief.
Tiemann's mouth crooked in a reluctant smile, and Skib put his chin on Tiemann's shoulder in order to address Arch: "Sure you can, lad. We've just seen him, he's well enough to complain about his enforced bed-rest."
Cowell cleared his throat meaningfully, and Skib, glancing over, amended this to, "Sorry. I mean, you can see him after your studies for today are over?"
"About that," Tiemann said to Cowell. "Cook told me you were looking over the half of the Chronomicon the lad brought, but that you were having problems with the beat. You really should let the Anthemic have a crack at it."
Cowell and Jackson exchanged another look, and then looked pointedly at Archuleta, who was already beet red: at this point, Arch wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole.
"Don't blame the lad," Tiemann told Cowell. "Cook can wring information from a stone, as we saw last night. Come, Cowell, we can work on the book today."
"Neal," Skib said warningly, and it took a moment before Archuleta realized he was speaking to Tiemann. He realized, also, from the concern in Skib's tone and the eloquent look in Skib's dark eyes, something else as well. He'd known that songcasters were barred from taking wives, but clearly they found their way to other relationships. Obviously he had a lot to learn about life in the Guild and the big city.
Tiemann grinned, and took Skib's hand off his shoulder and clasped it casually in front of everyone. "Let's ignore my nursemaid, shall we? I'm perfectly well - I've had rougher nights at the Astors’ Opera Ball. We don't need Cook for this, either Andy or the lad can sing."
Skib glared at Tiemann, and Archuleta found himself smiling. Jackson smiled too, and then, reluctantly, Cowell joined them.
"All right," Cowell said. "Gather your lads, Tiemann. We'll meet in my music rooms at ten o'clock."
He paused to glare at Archuleta. "And as for you, Journeyman, I'd suggest you got some breakfast in you, because if you thought Jackson and I were demanding taskmasters, you haven't yet played with Nineteen's Anthemic."
*
Archuleta discovered the truth of that statement that day, when he met the rest of the Anthemic properly and settled into the serious business of songcasting practice.
The Anthemic's beat-caster, young Kyle Peek, fresh from the Guild examinations, ink barely dry on his license papers, had a rare gift - the heartbeat of the world pulsed in his veins, spun out in a shimmering, instinctive cadence on the drumskin and brass of his platform kit.
Anchoring Peek's youthful beat was the bass line of old-timer Montague Anderson, whose solid tempo was like a steel trap, tireless and unstoppable.
And Andrew Skib added his complex rhythm guitar, layering the sound with a progressive pattern that Arch hadn't heard in his nineteen years of study.
Archuleta had spent five days with the Masters of House Nineteen, with the house strings and beat-casters and Master Jackson himself on rhythm guitar. In the face of such expertise, the music lines spelt out in the forty tattered pages of half the Chronomicon seemed constantly within their grasp. But then something would invariably fall short, and the music would fail to ground, and the thaumaturgy would dissipate and fall away to nothingness.
Masters Jackson and Cowell had already tried every trick in their arsenal - transposing the notes up and down a full octave, slowing down the beat, removing a set of strings and then adding them. Eventually, Cowell had remarked upon how the book's spine had been ripped through, finally concluding that perhaps the key was in the second half that was most inconveniently missing.
Of course, this was before the Anthemic fell on the book and examined it from all angles.
"Pictures are right strange," Peek commented, and Anderson shook his head.
Tiemann leafed through the stories, frowning. "Says here these songs break barriers of time, allow for seeing. There's never been songcasting that's done this."
"Do tell, Mr. Tiemann," Master Cowell drawled. "This is why the half-book young Archuleta brought us is so interesting."
"And it's why you haven't shared with the Guild yet, that right?"
"Don't test me, lad," Cowell said tartly. "How would it look if I raised this with the Guild President, told him, we think this is what these songs do, but we haven't been able to get them to work? Stringenfeld would piss himself laughing. Now, do you in fact have a constructive comment?"
Tiemann was quiet for a second, looking at the first song at the beginning of the book. "We'll need to practice before adding vocals," he said. "Peek, Anderson, let's try this one in a high Rochester four time. Skib, you come in at the fourth, like this line says."
Archuleta listened as the most powerful songcasting band in the House went through their paces.
They ran through the music as Tiemann had asked, twice, three times, the tempo building, pulling together tightly in a shining barrier of sound.
On the fourth pass Tiemann's virtuoso lead strings slid into the flow of music, and a bright blade sliced through Archuleta's spine.
He only realized he was on his feet and singing a wordless A note, gathering the shining threads of thaumaturgy to him, when the strings faltered and went silent and everyone stared open-mouthed at him.
Archuleta sagged, like a puppet whose strings were cut, and Skib put out a free hand and held him until he could stand again.
"I think we might be getting somewhere," said Master Cowell, with characteristic understatement.
Tiemann nodded to the boys and said, "Once more then, and this time, with feelin'."
*
It was toward the end of the afternoon when it happened.
Everyone had broken for afternoon tea, a staple of Master Cowell's, scones and Indian tea leaves. The music had felt sluggish when they'd returned, and Tiemann had the boys cycle quickly through the song in faster tempo than prescribed, once and then faster again, and then -
"Through the circle of time we soar/Open our eyes and let us see tomorrow..."
- the song tore out of Archuleta, the A and then the cadenced D and a wavering high C which he reached for and held and then let it burst out of him as if it had wings -
and then the grey light fills him, and he sees. Everything.
Rows of broken bodies, laid to waste in shallow trenches on the tundra, in cities under rubble. Advancing columns, regiments of foot-soldiers mown down on the front lines of a reality-changing war.
Death brought by rifles, steel bullets, armored cars, poison gas, stretching across all of Europe - the cities in England, the expanse of Russia, the staging posts in Germany and Italy - countries Archuleta's barely familiar with, but whose images now burn into his bones.
There's a symbol, a black, broken cross - bayonets and bullets; fantastical naval ships that sail underwater and fighter craft that fly on propellers through the skies, spreading death everywhere - and a very old, tired voice is saying in the Spanish which Archuleta's mom used to speak to him, "See you, this is what horrors Man will do to himself, in your time."
And Archuleta feels steel pierce his skin, feels the press of his fellows around him, falling, dying -
...Very slowly, leafing past incomprehensible images of blood and destruction, Archuleta struggled back to himself.
He opened his eyes. He was lying in bed somewhere dark, a single gas lamp lighting the room. Not the journeymen's quarters - an infirmary of some kind.
He felt a pressure on his hand, someone stroking the fingers comfortingly. He thought it would be the nurse, but when he turned his head, he looked into the square, bearded face of David Cook.
Cook had his right arm in a sling. His eyes were very green in the gaslight. There was no reason for him to be sitting at Archuleta's bedside, holding Arch's hand with his free one, but there he was doing that very thing.
"Welcome back," Cook said, his mouth curling in a smile. When Archuleta gaped at him silently, unable to respond, he continued, "I was a little worried, you know. Everyone was. Neal had said the seeing spell was a success, but they hadn't managed to stop it, and they had to bring you here." He grinned: "To keep me company, which was a real relief, I can tell you," and Archuleta felt his own lips turn upwards.
Cook squeezed his hand. "Would you like some water? I'll get the nurse."
Archuleta nodded. His throat was like sandpaper; it felt as if he'd sung himself dry. Cook summoned the night nurse, who tsked over and ministered to Archuleta. Arch wondered who had changed him out of his apprentice's uniform and into the loose sleeping pajamas which he was presently wearing - the thought was enough to make him flush again.
"So," Cook said, when the nurse had left them alone again, "Did the spell work? What did you see?"
Archuleta shook his head. -rows of broken bodies, laid to waste in shallow trenches- "Things," he murmured, finally. "Man-made things, weapons. From the future, I think. I couldn't recognize - I think there was a war. It was like the whole world was at war." His hands twitched with the memory.
"Hmm." Cook sat himself down and took Archuleta's hand again as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "Visionary spells, clearly not the most targeted songcasting. Tiemann needs to try to refine the music."
Archuleta didn't want to tell Cook that he thought he'd been having visionary dreams without the express assistance of the Chronomicon or the Anthemic. Lying here, with Cook's large hand holding his, he felt as if all his fears were foolish.
"I don’t know," he whispered finally, and winced at how weak and defeated it sounded, how afraid. What if it were true that war was coming? “Men did those things, made those things, what if those visions are a warning to us?”
Cook squeezed his hand. "Ah, they've had you working on this spell for a week like a rat in a cage, and now it finally works it fills you with visions so you can't stand. You need a break from this. Sleep now, and tomorrow, if you're up to it, I'll make good on my promise to show you the city. You’ll see its marvels: see men make things that help better the world, also, not just harm it."
"I'd like that, very much." Archuleta should have felt excited, elated, should feel something other than the wave of weariness that covered him. Weariness, and the warmth of Cook's hand holding his.
"Sleep, now," murmured Cook, as the tide of exhaustion started to drag Archuleta from the shore. Arch wasn't sure if he was dreaming, if he'd imagined Cook's presence, or Cook's next words. "In the morning, I'll be here."
*
Saturday, __ October 1901
Archuleta woke from a fitful sleep filled with bayonets, underwater ships, and a two-headed animal baying.
His head hurt. The sickroom was flooded in sunlight, illuminating white walls, clean linens, and the sleeping figure of David Cook lying in the next bed.
Cook was turning restlessly from side to side, murmuring something in his sleep. His good arm flung itself free of the bedclothes toward Archuleta, and Arch slid out of bed and leaned over him.
"Father," said Cook, and then, "Old Ones, Nyarlaothep,” and Archuleta frowned because it sounded like Cook was having the same dream as he’d been having these last five days.
He laid a tentative hand on Cook’s uninjured shoulder, and Cook jerked awake. At first he looked confused, and then he smiled a broad, unselfconscious grin, and all considerations of blood and baying animals were gone from Archuleta’s mind.
Arch wasn’t sure if the infirmary nurse would consent to release Cook, but once Cook had sat up in bed and spoke charmingly to her and showed her he could move his injured arm without the need for a sling, she snorted her agreement, and left them to their breakfast trays.
“What shall we do on this rare day off?” Cook enquired, opening the New York Times which adorned his tray. “It seems the New York Giants are playing St. Louis at the Polo Grounds today. Do you watch baseball at all, Archuleta?”
“No?” The names were foreign to Archuleta. His father had not approved of ball games; too many opportunities for injury. Come to think of it, reading a newspaper over breakfast was kind of foreign as well.
Cook leafed through the paper. “Hmm. How about a matinee instead? I’ve been wanting to catch Mr. John Drew in ‘The Second in Command’ at the Empire. It’s a military comedy.”
Archuleta flinched and tried to push away the images of armed conflict, which Cook took note of. “Ah, that wasn’t considerate of me; nothing militaristic. Maybe the Opera instead. And, rather than the ball game - let's see, we could take the ferry to Coney Island, watch the races at Sheepshead Bay at 2 o’clock. Is that more to your liking?”
“Oh!” said Archuleta. In the scant days spent readying for his York trip, he’d been told about the delights of the Coney Island boardwalk. “It has a famous carousel, doesn't it?”
Cook looked at him and burst out laughing. Arch blushed furiously - perhaps this was not Cook’s idea of an afternoon of laddish entertainment - when Cook reached over and briefly rested his knuckles against Arch’s cheek.
“You’re a surprise, all right,” he said, grinning; Arch felt he might never stop blushing again. “Coney Island it is, then. We’d best head out before Cowell arrives and decides to take you back to your books instead.”
Archuleta changed as directed into the simple shirt and trousers and country boots he’d worn when he’d come off the steam train from Utah. Cook dressed similarly anonymously, left a note for his Second, and seizing newspaper, hat and coat, strode out of the infirmary.
*
Manhattan.
The autumn sky was cloudless, the early morning sun heating the pavement. The streets had begun to clog with Saturday morning traffic: horse-drawn delivery wagons and buggies jostling with the new steam-engine motor cars along the Fifth Avenue. Above them, a small airship, someone’s pleasure craft, sailed lazily overhead, red and gold against the blue sky.
Cook walked rapidly, and Archuleta hurried to keep up with him, holding his hat to his head. They paced past street vendors, paperboys, well-dressed Manhattanites out on weekend morning errands. On either side of Fifth Avenue were the lavish brownstones of the last century. Cook pointed out the grand Vanderbilt mansion at the corner of Fifth and Fifty-Second Street, designed by Richard Morris Hunt, a white limestone French chateau in the Loire Valley style; Archuleta had never seen the like.
“The Vanderbilts like to entertain,” Cook said with a wink. “Although Mrs. Vanderbilt’s remarried and is now Mrs. Oliver H.P. Belmont. The grande dame quite likes songcasters - I ended up escorting her to the Stuyvesants’ ball for the Hospital for Children at the Wardorf-Astoria last year. Had to learn to dance a quadrille; Tiemann never let me live it down.”
Archuleta stared: he couldn’t imagine being a society escort to a formal ball and was amazed that Cook seemed entirely comfortable in such circles. Cook grinned: “I can see you’re less than impressed. The Park Avenue station’s right here, let’s ride to Wall Street.”
Archuleta followed Cook into the gated roadside terminal. It was far less sooty and crowded than Archuleta had expected, and when the omnibus-trolley pulled into the station with a whoosh of steam, Arch was taken aback by its shiny brass trimmings and new green paint on the sidings. The new steam technology seemed an obvious advantage on a clear fall day like this, with none of the expected smog or city pollution in the air.
Cook and Archuleta rode the trolley all the way down Broadway to lower Manhattan, alongside well-dressed men in hats and one or two errand boys with caps and clean faces. Archuleta’s eyes widened at the approach of the Financial District of the State of York, with its new steel-girded buildings measuring hundreds of feet tall.
“Here we are, Park Row,” said Cook, and they disembarked. The streets were quiet. It seemed the amassing of Wall Street fortunes was placed on temporary hiatus on Saturdays, although, according to Cook, the newsmen at the neighboring New York World Building were still working around the clock.
“I want to show you the views,” Cook said. “The doorman at the Gillender Tower won’t let us in when nobody’s working, but Mrs. Belmont’s cousin-in-law, August Jr., owns the Park Row Building, the tallest building in the world, and I have a standing invitation.”
The Park Row doorman did indeed recognize Cook, and tipped his hat to the two songcasters. Archuleta had never ridden a passenger elevator before, and although Cook assured him it was entirely safe, Arch winced every time the small box jerked and shuddered on its way to the top.
The top of the tallest building in the world boasted distinctive twin Art Deco spires, cunningly designed to serve as mooring masts and a depot for dirigibles. Cook and Archuleta exited the elevator onto the observation deck, nineteen stories up, from which they could see a landing platform with a dirigible gangplank. A huge air balloon was approaching the platform, its silken stripes bearing the insignia of the great Park Row Realty Company, its crew occupied with the gondola rigging and letting down the weights for docking.
Arch swallowed. The jagged skyline of Manhattan rolled away from him. Uptown, there was the stretch of man-made buildings and scaffolds that signaled steel constructs that would very soon be even taller than this one. To the south, he could see the tip of the island and grand Lady Liberty. He felt unaccountably nervous, as if he wanted to clutch at Cook’s hand to prevent himself from falling off the side of the building.
“Stunning, isn’t it?” murmured Cook. “I have to say, nothing bespeaks the progress of technology than the skyscrapers of York City.” He looked sideways at Archuleta. “Are you in awe yet?”
Arch smiled despite himself; Cook’s passion was infectious. “It’s spectacular! But I’m not used to these tall buildings. I don't know, you're always afraid that the builders haven’t got things right or the technology fails. So many new things, sometimes you wonder how good it all is, you know?”
Cook grinned. “You’re an old-fashioned lad, I approve. All right, no more high technology for us. We’re just in time to catch the twelve o’clock steam ferry from Whitehall Street. It’s a really big boat, that should be fairly old-fashioned, shouldn’t it?”
“I’m used to small craft you need oars to steer,” Archuleta said with dignity, and Cook laughed.
“I’d imagine that would be sufficient for the Salt Lakes, but crossing the Hudson is a somewhat more challenging endeavor, so the ship’s bigger.”
As promised, the Coney Island ferry was indeed larger than a simple fishing boat. The Whitehall Street harbor was filled with the smell of fish, and the sound of harbor-men shouting to one another. Cook stopped to grab a penny lunch from a nearby vendor, and he ushered Archuleta into the jostle of patrons hustling onto the bridge of the steam liner.
The sun was beating down in earnest when Cook and Archuleta climbed on deck. The salty sea breeze reminded Archuleta of home, but there was nothing in Salt Lake quite like the tang of fried fish wrapped in newspaper, which lunch they shared at the rail of the ferry’s prow, the sea spray in their hair, or the noisy, laughing press of men in shirtsleeves on their way to the races. Or - and the thought was enough to make Archuleta blush again - like the frank green gaze of the elegant lead songcaster of the Anthemic, who’d chosen to spend this day at Arch’s side.
It took no time at all for them to have arrived on the streets of Coney Island, resort isle and playground for all York’s finest. Archuleta was agog at the spectacle along the famous boardwalk, the fat circus men and bearded ladies and what announced itself as a show featuring live incubator children. Out on the beach, there were pavilions serving clams and beer, and groups of men playing raucous card and dice games which Cook named as three-card monte and "buck-a-luck".
They walked past the famous carousel, but Arch demurred when Cook looked meaningfully at him - after all it was getting closer to the time the races were to start.
Cook hailed a horse-drawn buggy off Steeplechase Row, and, together with a hundred or so other holidaymakers, the songcasters headed for the Coney Island Jockey Club.
It was, apparently, the seventh day of the Sheepshead Bay Fall Meeting, and Archuleta could see officials in straw boaters and ladies in picture hats lining the box seats. Cook paid the 50 cent admission fee, and he and Archuleta joined the common crowd in the press of the lower grandstand. Arch thought the smell of horse and perspiring male bodies would be overpowering, but, truth to tell, it was actually fairly pleasant, coupled with the buzz of excitement in the air.
“Are you a betting man, Arch?” Cook grinned at the horrified look on Archuleta’s face. “I’m going to take that as a no. I’m off to place a small wager or three, all right? I’ll be right back.”
Archuleta settled back into his corner by the rail of the track. More people were pushing their way into the stalls; some jostled against him, but for the most part the holiday crowd tried to observe some courtesies.
Someone moved in beside him into the space recently vacated by Cook; a slender man, hatless and in shirtsleeves, dark hair loose to his shoulders. Arch eyed him, wondering if he ought to say something, and the man looked back, brown eyes shrewd and searching.
“Nice day for it,” the man said conversationally. “It’s your first time at the races, lad?”
“Yes sir,” said Archuleta cautiously, and the man unfolded his race papers.
“The big race today is the Ten Thousand Dollar Century Stakes. My money’s on Mr. Haggin’s Watercolor. The favorite is Farrell’s colt, Blue, but Watercolor’s in fine form and I think he’s gonna come through today. I think the track favors him.”
It was all Greek to Archuleta. “Sorry, I don’t know much about horses or the track.”
The man’s brown eyes crinkled. “Well, there’s always a first time for everythin’. And you don’t have to know much about the races in order to know good advice, right?”
“Are you giving me advice?” asked Arch, and the man’s gaze grew pointed.
“Perhaps, if you'd accept some from me.” The stranger shifted from one foot to the other; something glinted in the open neck of his shirt, a gold pendant in the shape of an hourglass. “And not just concerning today’s races, either. I know you, young songcaster. You’ve just joined House Nineteen, from the Salt Lakes where they still believe in the old ways. You might feel like a fish out of water here in the city, and with good reason, but I think you’ll find there are folks who appreciate the old ways here as well. You might want to reach out to them, if ever you find a need.”
Arch’s eyebrows must have climbed all the way to his hat-line. Who this man was, how he knew anything about David Archuleta from the State of Utah, he had no idea. Still, there were people on either side of them, the day was warm and welcoming, and the man’s eyes were steady and kind.
“It’s advice I’ll bear in mind, sir,” he told the man, and then Cook shoved his way back to Arch’s side, a bottle of soda pop and a paper bag in hand. He did a double take, obviously recognizing Archuleta’s conversationalist.
“Why, Mr. Maroulis, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in daylight!” Cook stuck out a free hand, and the hatless man shook it.
“Nor I you, Mr. Cook. Now you see I don’t disappear in the sun, like one of Mr. Stoker’s vampyres. I see you’ve brought your young colleague out to see the sights!”
“Yes.” Cook gave Archuleta a sidelong smile. “Although I may be leading him somewhat astray. Tell me, Constantine, who d’you favor for the third race?”
“The Great Filly Race? Mr. Meyers’ Leonora Loring over Whitney’s Blue Girl. The time of the front runners are past, I feel; it’s time for the smart fillies to pull around.”
“I hope you're right, since my money’s on Loring,” said Cook. “I like to bet against the favorite, it’s better odds.”
“Always advisable to lay your money against the status quo,” said the man Cook had named Constantine Maroulis. He nodded to Archuleta. “It was good to meet you, David. I hope you enjoy your first day at the races. I’ll see you two around.”
“He owns a Bowery bar, and he’s one of the talented, except with no papers,” Cook told Archuleta, proffering his bottle of pop. “Here, try this: Coney Island Red Hots. Folks call them ‘hot dogs’ - they seem delicious.”
Archuleta took a tentative bite, and then a far more enthusiastic one. “These are delicious. Say, did you mention me to Mr Maroulis? Because he seemed to know who I was.”
Cook tried to articulate around his mouthful of Red Hot. “No, not at all. Seemed to know you in what way?”
Arch looked away. “Dunno, he knew my name,” he muttered, unsure as to how to tell Cook what Maroulis had insinuated. There was likely nothing there anyway. In an attempt to change the subject, he said, “Look, the horses are coming around!”
The races got off to a flying start: fillies and thoroughbreds with their dappled flanks and elegant hooves, the jockeys wearing their patrons’ bright colors. Cook’s eyes stayed trained on the track; he lifted his arm and hollered together with the crowd in celebration and then defeat.
Archuleta, high on the atmosphere of the racecourse and the sugar in the pop, couldn't keep his focus on the races. He kept looking at Cook, the flush on Cook’s wide, handsome face under the scruff of his beard, the careless spread of his shoulders framed by suspenders and casual shirt.
“This is the third race,” Cook murmured to Arch, his eyes bright. He pointed out the filly on which he’d laid money. “Look at how fine she is. The bookmakers were giving good odds on her. And they're off!”
Arch turned to the track. The filly which Cook had named Leonora Loring had pulled to an early lead, ahead of the favorite, Blue Girl, in the middle of the pack, who looked far and away the biggest and heaviest of the field. The nimble Loring drew clear as the fillies thundered around the bend into the stretch, the only horse at all near to her on the outside of the track at a clear disadvantage, and Cook threw a delighted grin at Archuleta - “We have this sewn up!”
Arch grinned back, and then a collective “Oh!” rose from the crowd. Arch craned his neck to see the favorite, Blue Girl, making a dash for it, flanks heaving, her rider plying the whip again and again. The favorite pulled forward - she passed another horse, then a second, a third, a fourth, closing the gap on the pacemaker -
- Cook was shouting, the veins in his neck standing out in sharp relief: “Come on, come on!” and Arch couldn’t breathe - the roar from the crowd was deafening -
…and in a thundering of hooves, Leonora managed to hold off Blue Girl and cross the finish line first by just a neck.
The tumult of cheers shook the grandstands. Cook whooped and hollered, and then flung his arms around Arch.
Archuleta felt Cook’s strong arms lift him off his feet, knocking his hat from his head. He felt the rasp of Cook’s beard against his cheek, the warm press of Cook’s body against him. He’d never felt the like before. He wanted to feel all those things every day for the rest of his life.
So of course he felt himself turn scarlet, and a spasm flail through his arms, and it was entirely understandable that Cook would let go.
When Cook set him on his feet again, Archuleta dropped to his knees and scrabbled on the ground for his hat. He straightened to Cook’s widely grinning face. Around them, cheering men were tossing their own hats in the air, or booing, the stands a tumult of noise. It was impossible to say or hear anything in the hubbub. Cook pulled Archuleta’s hat from his hands, set it on Arch’s head, and ran a lingering thumb over Arch’s cheekbone. He mouthed words which were snatched away by the surrounding noise.
“What?” Archuleta shouted back.
Cook put his mouth against Arch’s ear - Arch had to steel himself not to jerk automatically away. Cook’s breath was hot, and made his stomach twist, pleasantly. More than pleasantly. “I said, you’ve brought me luck! Come with me to fetch my winnings, and we’ll celebrate tonight.”
Archuleta followed Cook out of the crush of holidaymakers to the betting booths, where they discovered that there was some controversy over the Leonora Loring win - Mr. Whitney, the owner of Blue Girl, had lodged a complaint with the Jockey Club stewards, and until a full hearing was convened and determined on Monday, no wagers would be paid out.
“Easy come, easy go,” murmured Cook, grinning self-depreciatingly. “We’ll still celebrate on Monday after I collect on this wager, with dinner and the Opera!”
The races continued with the Ten Thousand Dollar Century Stakes and an even more controversial win by Watercolor, over the favorite, Blue. Come to think of it, Archuleta remembered that the strange man, Constantine Maroulis, had called this race, too.
When the races were over, Archuleta followed Cook and the crowd out of the club. The evening air had turned chilly. Cook looped his arm around Arch’s shoulders, pointed out the famous amusement park sights in the distance with his supposedly injured arm, and despite the fall night, Arch didn’t feel in the least bit cold.
When they boarded the return ferry, Archuleta thought he spotted a flash of Constantine Maroulis’ long dark hair. But when he turned and looked more closely, peering amid the steam and the running lights of the ferry and the stars overhead, the man wasn’t there after all.
*
House Nineteen, Monday, __ October 1901
“I said: it’s just the House box at the Opera. Cook wants to celebrate his race winnings, and thinks to do it with House business.”
Archuleta stared at his reflection in the glass and wished, not for the first time, that his hair was less rebellious. Wished, too, that Jason Castro wasn’t perched on the adjoining bed in the journeymen’s quarters, keeping up a running commentary on Arch’s preparations for the Monday evening entertainment.
Castro ran a hand through his perfect, Pre-Raphaelite locks. “If it was just business, Cook wouldn’t have invited you to dinner at his club, nor would he have sent along this coincidentally perfectly-fitting formal evening garb for you.”
Archuleta tugged self-consciously at the fine black dinner jacket and the starched shirt cuffs. "I think this is from the House wardrobe. Cook told me songcasters are sometimes asked to escort debutantes and society ladies out to balls. Not sure why, though."
Castro grinned. "I heard songcasters are known in York society for their many talents, and it's not just singin' or playin', either. Can't marry, so they're free to pay attentions to any lad or lass without strings attached." He leered at Archuleta. "You should be flattered - seems songcasters don't often court journeymen, we're usually just good for a tumble or two. They usually bond after they're licensed, like the Anthemic Two and Three. Hey, I heard Tiemann and Skib courted at the opera too!"
"Cook and I are not courting!" Archuleta said, blushing. "I don't even know what that means. You know back home, we never even talk about two men.” Never, although Archuleta had known from a very early age that he wasn’t interested in courting women, and was glad not to have to marry. “Here, though..."
"Here, in the Guild, where no wives or women live, it's a way of life. And Cook is quite a looker, you could do worse -" Castro ducked as Archuleta threw a book in his direction, before snatching up his borrowed coat and making a dignified exit.
*
The Union Club; the Metropolitan Opera House
Archuleta had told Castro that the evening was meant to be entirely innocent, just House business, but it wasn't that easy to pass this off as such, not when Cook had actually rung for the Nineteen carriage to take them to dinner, and personally handed Arch up into the carriage’s plush velvet interior.
Over the course of their dinner at The Union Club on Fifth and Fifty-Third, which comprised an exotic meal of roast mountain lamb with chestnut puree and Maryland duck with orange salad, they did speak of House business - how Arch's session with Cowell and the Anthemic that day had gone, how after Friday's incident they hadn't attempted the seeing spell again.
But despite such legitimate conversational topics, Cook kept looking meaningfully across the elaborate table at Archuleta, his gaze as heated and intent as Arch imagined a courting lover's would be. Arch watched in fascination as Cook fiddled with the heavy Asprey cutlery, smoothed over the starched tablecloth, fingers opening and closing restlessly as if he wanted to take hold of Arch's hand.
Despite himself, Archuleta was indeed as flattered as Castro had urged. It didn't hurt, also, that Cook was looking particularly elegant in his dinner attire, auburn head backlit by the light from the ornate fireplace of the adjacent smoking room.
Afterward, they sat high above the stage in the fabulous Metropolitan Opera House, under the flickering illumination of the candles in the House Nineteen red and gold box seats. Arch found that whenever he glanced up from the Faust score he’d borrowed from the Nineteen library, he was met by Cook's intense green eyes.
Master Cowell was in the box this night, together with some other songcasters from another House field band. Arch had asked him a little timidly if he'd had to wait long for the carriage to pick him from House, having been delayed by Cook and Arch's dinner. Cowell had said, "Not long," which was evidently British for annoyance of an extreme kind.
Cowell had then turned to Cook, his low voice cutting across the opening aria of the handsome veteran singer singing the role of Dr Faust this night. "We missed you at rehearsal today, Mr. Cook. The boys and Journeyman Archuleta could have used your talents."
Cook shrugged. "Had to collect my winnings at the Jockey Club," he said. "I'll come to rehearsal tomorrow, all right?"
Cowell made a harrumphing noise, and brought his theatre glasses to his nose. Thus dismissed, Cook rose and went to stand beside Archuleta.
"Enjoying this? Lerou is one of the finest performing tenors in the State of York."
"Oh, yes!" Archuleta looked out into the stage, where the Faust set - comprising a drapery of red baize in the foreground and an erection of vaulted bookcases, framed by a cunning backdrop of arched windows and well-lit by the footlights - currently suggested the Scholar’s Germanic library. He waved the score and its libretto at Cook. "This score is so interesting. I used to read opera and orchestral scores at home, not that I understood most of the French, but I've never seen a real opera staged. This is amazing."
"Well," said Cook, "They say this production is as good as any in Paris or Vienna, and the Met orchestra is excellent. You feel the power behind the strings? You could almost think there was talent there. And Mr. Lerou, his voice sounds almost like yours in the lower ranges."
Archuleta felt himself coloring. "You haven't heard me sing properly, Cook."
"That night you got off the Utah train? When you and Castro sang the trousers off the Maroon? We have no one in House that sings like you. You have such a lush timbre in your upper range - Lerou can’t match it: Maudites soyez vous, ô voluptés humaines. Maudites soient les chaînes Oui me font ramper ici-bas!”
Cook's rich voice slid effortlessly into the French lyric, and, before he could feel self-conscious about it, Arch found the place in the score and joined him: “Maudit soit tout ce qui nous leurre, Vain espoir qui passe avec l'heure, Rêves d'amour ou de combats.”
Their voices blended with the twenty strings in the orchestra pit, and Archuleta felt the thaumaturgy rise from his toes, curling through his body. Cook reached for his hand; Arch felt the jolt of connection flare between them.
They both fell silent. Archuleta felt a little unsteady on his feet - their sung lines had sparked so much power, he thought if they'd continued singing, they'd perhaps be capable of tearing down the fantastical domed roof.
"I was right," Cook said into the stillness of the box. His eyes gleamed under the candlelight. "There's no one else like you."
Archuleta wasn't sure what to say to this, what he could say, with Cook standing so close to him that Arch could see the auburn of Cook’s beard, the curve of his mouth. Fortunately, he was saved by someone in House colors bursting into the box.
Cowell rose to his feet, frowning crossly - it was the height of rudeness to enter a box in the middle of an aria. But when he read the outstretched note, he nodded, summoned Cook with a flick of his fingers, and both of them left the box. Arch thought they'd return shortly, but the minutes stretched and they didn't reappear.
Nevertheless, the first few acts of the opera held Arch’s full attention. He applauded wildly when the curtain fell for the interval.
At this juncture, another man entered their Opera box. He was tall and broad, elegant in evening dress, and entirely bald. He spoke quietly to one of the other songcasters for a space, and then went to stand beside Arch at the horseshoe-shaped edge.
"Mr. Archuleta, isn't it? My name is Christophe Daughtry. I'm new to York. I've just signed with Nineteen."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Arch said politely, and they shook hands. "I'm new to York, too! How are you enjoying the City?”
Daughtry shrugged. “I find it too new. You Americans are too quick to tear down the old and build new things too quickly. Your airships, your steam trains and trolleys, your skyscrapers. Your heavy industries and weapons of war, which the Guild helps build. I come from France, and I also see this growing willingness to throw away the old and embrace new things which we don’t fully understand. It troubles me.”
Archuleta frowned. He agreed with this; he vaguely remembered saying as much to Cook. “Oh, everything’s new in this city,” he said. “I guess it’s not really something everyone thinks about too much; it’s about progress, or something like it. But you’re right, I always worry that the technology will fail, and where would we be then?”
Daughtry’s blue eyes held his. “You’re a bright lad,” he said. “That is a most valid concern.”
The orchestra struck up again, signaling the imminence of the next act. Daughtry nodded toward the stage. "Take this very play, for instance. This is a story which is also told in Europe. Germany’s Goethe made this into a play: Faust: Eine Tragödie, and so did England’s Christopher Marlowe: The Tragedy of Doctor Faustus. It is a story about man's greed for knowledge and power, his aggrandizement of the Self. Faust makes a pact with the Devil. The Devil gives him knowledge and the keys to science and the mysteries of the world for twenty-four years, in exchange for his immortal soul. But such knowledge is quintessentially flawed, it comes with a price.”
As Daughtry spoke, the curtain rose on Act Four. Mephistopheles was importuning the virtuous soprano star in a church, of all places, bent on seduction as she knelt and pleaded for divine assistance.
Daughtry continued, "And in the end, what happens to Faust, to Man? The Devil comes back to claim his prize, and of course Faust pays the ultimate price for his greed. Faust feels remorse, then, of course. In his final soliloquy, he says, Ah Faust, thou hast now but one hour to live and then thou must be damned perpetually. Stand still, ye ever-moving spheres of heaven, that time will cease and midnight never come!"
Archuleta was finding it difficult to breathe. Daughtry's eyes shone in the dark.
"Like Faust, Man was not made to know all things. The Guild thinks it knows best, of course. Now that a great treasure has come, the Guild is trying to control it - but the treasure will master them. From the sunken depths, from the vast plains beyond our world, the Masters lie waiting."
Archuleta wasn't sure which was more unnerving: that he had no idea what Daughtry was saying, or that he thought he might have an inkling. A cavern, a bloody summoning, a two-headed bear god rising... He settled for, "How do you know about the Chronomicon?"
"You are bright." Daughtry nodded as if to himself. "Six weeks ago, in the Loire Valley, we discovered the other Chronomicon half, the European Half. And we uncovered the Silver Key in Germany, which is in the possession of Captain von Ahlen. He will come to the American States when the time is right."
"What do you and this … this Captain plan on doing with your half and this Key?" Archuleta knew he was out of his depth. "You had better talk to Lord Fuller, sir. This is beyond me, I'm just a journeyman, I don't know much at all."
Daughtry's blue eyes gazed steadily into Arch's. "You're a journeyman with extreme talent, Mr. Archuleta. The American Half found its way to you for a reason. I have indeed spoken to Lord Fuller, and to your Mr. Cook earlier, but I think it's you whom we may have to count on when the time is right."
"And who are you? What are you planning on doing?" Arch's voice sounded tinny to his own ears, struggling for clarity.
Daughtry said, "You'll know about us soon enough, Mr. Archuleta. We are known as the Anachronists, because we believe that the time of Man is past. Through the Chronomicon, we seek to right the proper flow of history. And when the time is right, you'll know, too - to the Temple will come the true King."
Daughtry nodded to Archuleta. "We'll meet again soon. Please send my regards to Mr. Cook." He sketched a salute at Arch, and then slid through the door.
For some reason, Archuleta was unable to concentrate on the Opera thereafter. The brocade and gold around him, the fine sets, the plush velvet and vaulted arches, all seemed hollow, made by men who knew little and understood less.
He didn’t stop shivering until Cook returned to the House box during the final act.
"That is the strangest damned thing," Cook muttered when Arch told him what had happened. He put his hand on Arch's shoulder. "It sounds like the man Tiemann and I met in the Silo last week before we were attacked.”
Cook frowned. “And, what he said about the true King… We just received word that the new King of England will be coming to town on a clandestine visit."
Prologue & Cast of Characters : Chapter One : Chapter Two : Chapter Three : Chapter Four : Epilogue, Footnotes & Full Cast list (spoilers)
In which Archuleta has a dream about the future. The Anthemic manage get the scrying song of the Chronomicon to work. Arch and Cook spend a day at the races in Coney Island, and later spend Cook’s winnings at the Opera, where Arch meets the mysterious Christophe Daughtry.
House Nineteen, Friday, __ October 1901
David Archuleta knew he was asleep in his narrow journeyman's bed in the heart of House Nineteen.
At the same time he's deep in the bowels of the Utah mountainside where he was born. The bonfire throws the craggy, volcanic walls of the cave into stark relief, casts grotesque shadows across the faces of the men around him, naked bodies daubed with animal blood. He knows he should recognize them: neighbors and homesteaders, ranchers and merchants. But all of them were strangers this night.
Hail to the Great Silver Bear of the Mountain. Hail to Usurus, Brothers of the Circle. He lies sleeping beyond R'yleigh. Let us give him honor. Hail.
"Brother Archuleta, bring it forth," he hears someone intone, and he watches his own hands (large, hairy-backed hands) haul a snuffling animal on a chain into the circle of the men. It looks like a bear, barely a week or two old, but it’s deformed; it has more joints than it should, and it has a second mouth on the other side of its snout.
There's a tall figure at the makeshift altar, on which rests a knife and a wide, liquid-filled bowl. As he wrestles the bear onto the stone, he looks into the bowl and sees his father's face.
Hail Usurus. He lies sleeping. Let us give him honor. Let us see him, until he comes again.
The men chant. There's a flash of steel, and blood, and the screaming of a dying animal.
And everything moves in slow motion; the world rending. Claws and fangs and redness, and a two-headed god rises, rears its head and roars into the endless cave...
…Archuleta jerked awake in a sweaty tangle of sheets. He'd had the same dream every night since he'd come to the New State of York with the Chronomicon.
It was strange he wasn't more disturbed about the dream. He'd grown up in the mountains, set amid the great salt flats, where people still talked about the gods of the earth and sky, and after a day of cattle herding and farming, about animal sacrifice. His father, who'd come over the plains from across the Hispanic border, had maintained an altar in their simple home. His mom and four siblings had thought nothing of giving thanks to the gods of the mountains in preference to the Christian Christ-figure hawked by the schoolmarms in the Murray schoolroom and the gaunt-cheeked preacher at his Sunday pulpit.
He hadn't seen his father since he'd started his journeyman training at Salt Lake, and now he was here in York City he couldn't wire home easily; it took the mail weeks to get to the Archuleta homestead from the main Salt Lake postal office as it was. And what was he going to ask - So, Father, do you really follow a cult of animal-sacrificing worshippers of the Great Bear? No. The week had been strange enough.
He wasn't at all used to being in the State of York, either. The streets were filthy and crowded, the tenement buildings so tall, the City students and teachers gruff and cynical - everything was so different from the peace and open spaces of home, which he found he missed with a sudden, yearning ache he could almost taste.
Around him, his fellow journeymen were stirring. Archuleta sighed and got out of bed. He was used to starting his day with a brisk run in the cold morning air, but he had no idea where there was to run here in York City, with its smog and squalid, teeming masses.
He settled for a cold wash in the communal bathhouse, the rattling of the modern pipes an unheard-of luxury. He rested his head against the side of the tub and tried to curb his homesickness.
He eventually wandered into the dining hall, where the students were abuzz with the latest gossip. It seemed the Anthemic had been sent on a secret Guild mission to the bars of the Bowery last night, and David Cook, the Anthemic's lead songcaster, had been critically stabbed and lay near death.
Archuleta froze in the act of digging into his breakfast cakes. He'd spoken to Cook last night; he remembered Cook's smile, his warm green eyes, his casual offer to take Archuleta out to see the sights of the City - and after that he had headed out into a night filled with knives.
Suddenly, breakfast didn't appeal to him anymore. Archuleta got up and walked around the dining hall until he spotted Cook's blond Second, wearing an anonymous black shirt and trousers, clan insignia rings and jewelry gleaming from his ears and lower lip. There was a purpling bruise across his jaw.
Tiemann was sitting at High Table with Masters Cowell and Jackson in their full House dress. Beside him was a slender, dark-haired man whom Archuleta recognized as Andrew Skib, the Anthemic's rhythm stringcaster. Skib had his arm around Tiemann's waist and looked for the world like he wanted to climb into Tiemann's waistcoat.
Much to his own surprise, Archuleta found that none of those things proved to be a deterrent. He walked over and sat himself down on the other end of the bench from Tiemann. As the four men turned to stare at him, he asked, "Mr. Tiemann, I heard about Mr. Cook. Is he all right?"
Jackson and Cowell exchanged glances, but Arch had only eyes for Tiemann; he realized he was holding his breath for Tiemann's response.
Tiemann's blue eyes narrowed. Then he said, slowly, "Archuleta, right? Saw you talkin' to Cook last night. He's gonna be fine, took a scratch to the arm is all."
"Can I see him?" Archuleta didn't realize what he'd said until he'd said it, and he felt himself flushing hotly. Cook had come to his rescue when the Maroon had attacked in Central Park, had been kind to him and offered to show him York City. The thought that Cook wasn't in fact mortally wounded filled him with immense relief.
Tiemann's mouth crooked in a reluctant smile, and Skib put his chin on Tiemann's shoulder in order to address Arch: "Sure you can, lad. We've just seen him, he's well enough to complain about his enforced bed-rest."
Cowell cleared his throat meaningfully, and Skib, glancing over, amended this to, "Sorry. I mean, you can see him after your studies for today are over?"
"About that," Tiemann said to Cowell. "Cook told me you were looking over the half of the Chronomicon the lad brought, but that you were having problems with the beat. You really should let the Anthemic have a crack at it."
Cowell and Jackson exchanged another look, and then looked pointedly at Archuleta, who was already beet red: at this point, Arch wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole.
"Don't blame the lad," Tiemann told Cowell. "Cook can wring information from a stone, as we saw last night. Come, Cowell, we can work on the book today."
"Neal," Skib said warningly, and it took a moment before Archuleta realized he was speaking to Tiemann. He realized, also, from the concern in Skib's tone and the eloquent look in Skib's dark eyes, something else as well. He'd known that songcasters were barred from taking wives, but clearly they found their way to other relationships. Obviously he had a lot to learn about life in the Guild and the big city.
Tiemann grinned, and took Skib's hand off his shoulder and clasped it casually in front of everyone. "Let's ignore my nursemaid, shall we? I'm perfectly well - I've had rougher nights at the Astors’ Opera Ball. We don't need Cook for this, either Andy or the lad can sing."
Skib glared at Tiemann, and Archuleta found himself smiling. Jackson smiled too, and then, reluctantly, Cowell joined them.
"All right," Cowell said. "Gather your lads, Tiemann. We'll meet in my music rooms at ten o'clock."
He paused to glare at Archuleta. "And as for you, Journeyman, I'd suggest you got some breakfast in you, because if you thought Jackson and I were demanding taskmasters, you haven't yet played with Nineteen's Anthemic."
*
Archuleta discovered the truth of that statement that day, when he met the rest of the Anthemic properly and settled into the serious business of songcasting practice.
The Anthemic's beat-caster, young Kyle Peek, fresh from the Guild examinations, ink barely dry on his license papers, had a rare gift - the heartbeat of the world pulsed in his veins, spun out in a shimmering, instinctive cadence on the drumskin and brass of his platform kit.
Anchoring Peek's youthful beat was the bass line of old-timer Montague Anderson, whose solid tempo was like a steel trap, tireless and unstoppable.
And Andrew Skib added his complex rhythm guitar, layering the sound with a progressive pattern that Arch hadn't heard in his nineteen years of study.
Archuleta had spent five days with the Masters of House Nineteen, with the house strings and beat-casters and Master Jackson himself on rhythm guitar. In the face of such expertise, the music lines spelt out in the forty tattered pages of half the Chronomicon seemed constantly within their grasp. But then something would invariably fall short, and the music would fail to ground, and the thaumaturgy would dissipate and fall away to nothingness.
Masters Jackson and Cowell had already tried every trick in their arsenal - transposing the notes up and down a full octave, slowing down the beat, removing a set of strings and then adding them. Eventually, Cowell had remarked upon how the book's spine had been ripped through, finally concluding that perhaps the key was in the second half that was most inconveniently missing.
Of course, this was before the Anthemic fell on the book and examined it from all angles.
"Pictures are right strange," Peek commented, and Anderson shook his head.
Tiemann leafed through the stories, frowning. "Says here these songs break barriers of time, allow for seeing. There's never been songcasting that's done this."
"Do tell, Mr. Tiemann," Master Cowell drawled. "This is why the half-book young Archuleta brought us is so interesting."
"And it's why you haven't shared with the Guild yet, that right?"
"Don't test me, lad," Cowell said tartly. "How would it look if I raised this with the Guild President, told him, we think this is what these songs do, but we haven't been able to get them to work? Stringenfeld would piss himself laughing. Now, do you in fact have a constructive comment?"
Tiemann was quiet for a second, looking at the first song at the beginning of the book. "We'll need to practice before adding vocals," he said. "Peek, Anderson, let's try this one in a high Rochester four time. Skib, you come in at the fourth, like this line says."
Archuleta listened as the most powerful songcasting band in the House went through their paces.
They ran through the music as Tiemann had asked, twice, three times, the tempo building, pulling together tightly in a shining barrier of sound.
On the fourth pass Tiemann's virtuoso lead strings slid into the flow of music, and a bright blade sliced through Archuleta's spine.
He only realized he was on his feet and singing a wordless A note, gathering the shining threads of thaumaturgy to him, when the strings faltered and went silent and everyone stared open-mouthed at him.
Archuleta sagged, like a puppet whose strings were cut, and Skib put out a free hand and held him until he could stand again.
"I think we might be getting somewhere," said Master Cowell, with characteristic understatement.
Tiemann nodded to the boys and said, "Once more then, and this time, with feelin'."
*
It was toward the end of the afternoon when it happened.
Everyone had broken for afternoon tea, a staple of Master Cowell's, scones and Indian tea leaves. The music had felt sluggish when they'd returned, and Tiemann had the boys cycle quickly through the song in faster tempo than prescribed, once and then faster again, and then -
"Through the circle of time we soar/Open our eyes and let us see tomorrow..."
- the song tore out of Archuleta, the A and then the cadenced D and a wavering high C which he reached for and held and then let it burst out of him as if it had wings -
and then the grey light fills him, and he sees. Everything.
Rows of broken bodies, laid to waste in shallow trenches on the tundra, in cities under rubble. Advancing columns, regiments of foot-soldiers mown down on the front lines of a reality-changing war.
Death brought by rifles, steel bullets, armored cars, poison gas, stretching across all of Europe - the cities in England, the expanse of Russia, the staging posts in Germany and Italy - countries Archuleta's barely familiar with, but whose images now burn into his bones.
There's a symbol, a black, broken cross - bayonets and bullets; fantastical naval ships that sail underwater and fighter craft that fly on propellers through the skies, spreading death everywhere - and a very old, tired voice is saying in the Spanish which Archuleta's mom used to speak to him, "See you, this is what horrors Man will do to himself, in your time."
And Archuleta feels steel pierce his skin, feels the press of his fellows around him, falling, dying -
...Very slowly, leafing past incomprehensible images of blood and destruction, Archuleta struggled back to himself.
He opened his eyes. He was lying in bed somewhere dark, a single gas lamp lighting the room. Not the journeymen's quarters - an infirmary of some kind.
He felt a pressure on his hand, someone stroking the fingers comfortingly. He thought it would be the nurse, but when he turned his head, he looked into the square, bearded face of David Cook.
Cook had his right arm in a sling. His eyes were very green in the gaslight. There was no reason for him to be sitting at Archuleta's bedside, holding Arch's hand with his free one, but there he was doing that very thing.
"Welcome back," Cook said, his mouth curling in a smile. When Archuleta gaped at him silently, unable to respond, he continued, "I was a little worried, you know. Everyone was. Neal had said the seeing spell was a success, but they hadn't managed to stop it, and they had to bring you here." He grinned: "To keep me company, which was a real relief, I can tell you," and Archuleta felt his own lips turn upwards.
Cook squeezed his hand. "Would you like some water? I'll get the nurse."
Archuleta nodded. His throat was like sandpaper; it felt as if he'd sung himself dry. Cook summoned the night nurse, who tsked over and ministered to Archuleta. Arch wondered who had changed him out of his apprentice's uniform and into the loose sleeping pajamas which he was presently wearing - the thought was enough to make him flush again.
"So," Cook said, when the nurse had left them alone again, "Did the spell work? What did you see?"
Archuleta shook his head. -rows of broken bodies, laid to waste in shallow trenches- "Things," he murmured, finally. "Man-made things, weapons. From the future, I think. I couldn't recognize - I think there was a war. It was like the whole world was at war." His hands twitched with the memory.
"Hmm." Cook sat himself down and took Archuleta's hand again as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "Visionary spells, clearly not the most targeted songcasting. Tiemann needs to try to refine the music."
Archuleta didn't want to tell Cook that he thought he'd been having visionary dreams without the express assistance of the Chronomicon or the Anthemic. Lying here, with Cook's large hand holding his, he felt as if all his fears were foolish.
"I don’t know," he whispered finally, and winced at how weak and defeated it sounded, how afraid. What if it were true that war was coming? “Men did those things, made those things, what if those visions are a warning to us?”
Cook squeezed his hand. "Ah, they've had you working on this spell for a week like a rat in a cage, and now it finally works it fills you with visions so you can't stand. You need a break from this. Sleep now, and tomorrow, if you're up to it, I'll make good on my promise to show you the city. You’ll see its marvels: see men make things that help better the world, also, not just harm it."
"I'd like that, very much." Archuleta should have felt excited, elated, should feel something other than the wave of weariness that covered him. Weariness, and the warmth of Cook's hand holding his.
"Sleep, now," murmured Cook, as the tide of exhaustion started to drag Archuleta from the shore. Arch wasn't sure if he was dreaming, if he'd imagined Cook's presence, or Cook's next words. "In the morning, I'll be here."
*
Saturday, __ October 1901
Archuleta woke from a fitful sleep filled with bayonets, underwater ships, and a two-headed animal baying.
His head hurt. The sickroom was flooded in sunlight, illuminating white walls, clean linens, and the sleeping figure of David Cook lying in the next bed.
Cook was turning restlessly from side to side, murmuring something in his sleep. His good arm flung itself free of the bedclothes toward Archuleta, and Arch slid out of bed and leaned over him.
"Father," said Cook, and then, "Old Ones, Nyarlaothep,” and Archuleta frowned because it sounded like Cook was having the same dream as he’d been having these last five days.
He laid a tentative hand on Cook’s uninjured shoulder, and Cook jerked awake. At first he looked confused, and then he smiled a broad, unselfconscious grin, and all considerations of blood and baying animals were gone from Archuleta’s mind.
Arch wasn’t sure if the infirmary nurse would consent to release Cook, but once Cook had sat up in bed and spoke charmingly to her and showed her he could move his injured arm without the need for a sling, she snorted her agreement, and left them to their breakfast trays.
“What shall we do on this rare day off?” Cook enquired, opening the New York Times which adorned his tray. “It seems the New York Giants are playing St. Louis at the Polo Grounds today. Do you watch baseball at all, Archuleta?”
“No?” The names were foreign to Archuleta. His father had not approved of ball games; too many opportunities for injury. Come to think of it, reading a newspaper over breakfast was kind of foreign as well.
Cook leafed through the paper. “Hmm. How about a matinee instead? I’ve been wanting to catch Mr. John Drew in ‘The Second in Command’ at the Empire. It’s a military comedy.”
Archuleta flinched and tried to push away the images of armed conflict, which Cook took note of. “Ah, that wasn’t considerate of me; nothing militaristic. Maybe the Opera instead. And, rather than the ball game - let's see, we could take the ferry to Coney Island, watch the races at Sheepshead Bay at 2 o’clock. Is that more to your liking?”
“Oh!” said Archuleta. In the scant days spent readying for his York trip, he’d been told about the delights of the Coney Island boardwalk. “It has a famous carousel, doesn't it?”
Cook looked at him and burst out laughing. Arch blushed furiously - perhaps this was not Cook’s idea of an afternoon of laddish entertainment - when Cook reached over and briefly rested his knuckles against Arch’s cheek.
“You’re a surprise, all right,” he said, grinning; Arch felt he might never stop blushing again. “Coney Island it is, then. We’d best head out before Cowell arrives and decides to take you back to your books instead.”
Archuleta changed as directed into the simple shirt and trousers and country boots he’d worn when he’d come off the steam train from Utah. Cook dressed similarly anonymously, left a note for his Second, and seizing newspaper, hat and coat, strode out of the infirmary.
*
Manhattan.
The autumn sky was cloudless, the early morning sun heating the pavement. The streets had begun to clog with Saturday morning traffic: horse-drawn delivery wagons and buggies jostling with the new steam-engine motor cars along the Fifth Avenue. Above them, a small airship, someone’s pleasure craft, sailed lazily overhead, red and gold against the blue sky.
Cook walked rapidly, and Archuleta hurried to keep up with him, holding his hat to his head. They paced past street vendors, paperboys, well-dressed Manhattanites out on weekend morning errands. On either side of Fifth Avenue were the lavish brownstones of the last century. Cook pointed out the grand Vanderbilt mansion at the corner of Fifth and Fifty-Second Street, designed by Richard Morris Hunt, a white limestone French chateau in the Loire Valley style; Archuleta had never seen the like.
“The Vanderbilts like to entertain,” Cook said with a wink. “Although Mrs. Vanderbilt’s remarried and is now Mrs. Oliver H.P. Belmont. The grande dame quite likes songcasters - I ended up escorting her to the Stuyvesants’ ball for the Hospital for Children at the Wardorf-Astoria last year. Had to learn to dance a quadrille; Tiemann never let me live it down.”
Archuleta stared: he couldn’t imagine being a society escort to a formal ball and was amazed that Cook seemed entirely comfortable in such circles. Cook grinned: “I can see you’re less than impressed. The Park Avenue station’s right here, let’s ride to Wall Street.”
Archuleta followed Cook into the gated roadside terminal. It was far less sooty and crowded than Archuleta had expected, and when the omnibus-trolley pulled into the station with a whoosh of steam, Arch was taken aback by its shiny brass trimmings and new green paint on the sidings. The new steam technology seemed an obvious advantage on a clear fall day like this, with none of the expected smog or city pollution in the air.
Cook and Archuleta rode the trolley all the way down Broadway to lower Manhattan, alongside well-dressed men in hats and one or two errand boys with caps and clean faces. Archuleta’s eyes widened at the approach of the Financial District of the State of York, with its new steel-girded buildings measuring hundreds of feet tall.
“Here we are, Park Row,” said Cook, and they disembarked. The streets were quiet. It seemed the amassing of Wall Street fortunes was placed on temporary hiatus on Saturdays, although, according to Cook, the newsmen at the neighboring New York World Building were still working around the clock.
“I want to show you the views,” Cook said. “The doorman at the Gillender Tower won’t let us in when nobody’s working, but Mrs. Belmont’s cousin-in-law, August Jr., owns the Park Row Building, the tallest building in the world, and I have a standing invitation.”
The Park Row doorman did indeed recognize Cook, and tipped his hat to the two songcasters. Archuleta had never ridden a passenger elevator before, and although Cook assured him it was entirely safe, Arch winced every time the small box jerked and shuddered on its way to the top.
The top of the tallest building in the world boasted distinctive twin Art Deco spires, cunningly designed to serve as mooring masts and a depot for dirigibles. Cook and Archuleta exited the elevator onto the observation deck, nineteen stories up, from which they could see a landing platform with a dirigible gangplank. A huge air balloon was approaching the platform, its silken stripes bearing the insignia of the great Park Row Realty Company, its crew occupied with the gondola rigging and letting down the weights for docking.
Arch swallowed. The jagged skyline of Manhattan rolled away from him. Uptown, there was the stretch of man-made buildings and scaffolds that signaled steel constructs that would very soon be even taller than this one. To the south, he could see the tip of the island and grand Lady Liberty. He felt unaccountably nervous, as if he wanted to clutch at Cook’s hand to prevent himself from falling off the side of the building.
“Stunning, isn’t it?” murmured Cook. “I have to say, nothing bespeaks the progress of technology than the skyscrapers of York City.” He looked sideways at Archuleta. “Are you in awe yet?”
Arch smiled despite himself; Cook’s passion was infectious. “It’s spectacular! But I’m not used to these tall buildings. I don't know, you're always afraid that the builders haven’t got things right or the technology fails. So many new things, sometimes you wonder how good it all is, you know?”
Cook grinned. “You’re an old-fashioned lad, I approve. All right, no more high technology for us. We’re just in time to catch the twelve o’clock steam ferry from Whitehall Street. It’s a really big boat, that should be fairly old-fashioned, shouldn’t it?”
“I’m used to small craft you need oars to steer,” Archuleta said with dignity, and Cook laughed.
“I’d imagine that would be sufficient for the Salt Lakes, but crossing the Hudson is a somewhat more challenging endeavor, so the ship’s bigger.”
As promised, the Coney Island ferry was indeed larger than a simple fishing boat. The Whitehall Street harbor was filled with the smell of fish, and the sound of harbor-men shouting to one another. Cook stopped to grab a penny lunch from a nearby vendor, and he ushered Archuleta into the jostle of patrons hustling onto the bridge of the steam liner.
The sun was beating down in earnest when Cook and Archuleta climbed on deck. The salty sea breeze reminded Archuleta of home, but there was nothing in Salt Lake quite like the tang of fried fish wrapped in newspaper, which lunch they shared at the rail of the ferry’s prow, the sea spray in their hair, or the noisy, laughing press of men in shirtsleeves on their way to the races. Or - and the thought was enough to make Archuleta blush again - like the frank green gaze of the elegant lead songcaster of the Anthemic, who’d chosen to spend this day at Arch’s side.
It took no time at all for them to have arrived on the streets of Coney Island, resort isle and playground for all York’s finest. Archuleta was agog at the spectacle along the famous boardwalk, the fat circus men and bearded ladies and what announced itself as a show featuring live incubator children. Out on the beach, there were pavilions serving clams and beer, and groups of men playing raucous card and dice games which Cook named as three-card monte and "buck-a-luck".
They walked past the famous carousel, but Arch demurred when Cook looked meaningfully at him - after all it was getting closer to the time the races were to start.
Cook hailed a horse-drawn buggy off Steeplechase Row, and, together with a hundred or so other holidaymakers, the songcasters headed for the Coney Island Jockey Club.
It was, apparently, the seventh day of the Sheepshead Bay Fall Meeting, and Archuleta could see officials in straw boaters and ladies in picture hats lining the box seats. Cook paid the 50 cent admission fee, and he and Archuleta joined the common crowd in the press of the lower grandstand. Arch thought the smell of horse and perspiring male bodies would be overpowering, but, truth to tell, it was actually fairly pleasant, coupled with the buzz of excitement in the air.
“Are you a betting man, Arch?” Cook grinned at the horrified look on Archuleta’s face. “I’m going to take that as a no. I’m off to place a small wager or three, all right? I’ll be right back.”
Archuleta settled back into his corner by the rail of the track. More people were pushing their way into the stalls; some jostled against him, but for the most part the holiday crowd tried to observe some courtesies.
Someone moved in beside him into the space recently vacated by Cook; a slender man, hatless and in shirtsleeves, dark hair loose to his shoulders. Arch eyed him, wondering if he ought to say something, and the man looked back, brown eyes shrewd and searching.
“Nice day for it,” the man said conversationally. “It’s your first time at the races, lad?”
“Yes sir,” said Archuleta cautiously, and the man unfolded his race papers.
“The big race today is the Ten Thousand Dollar Century Stakes. My money’s on Mr. Haggin’s Watercolor. The favorite is Farrell’s colt, Blue, but Watercolor’s in fine form and I think he’s gonna come through today. I think the track favors him.”
It was all Greek to Archuleta. “Sorry, I don’t know much about horses or the track.”
The man’s brown eyes crinkled. “Well, there’s always a first time for everythin’. And you don’t have to know much about the races in order to know good advice, right?”
“Are you giving me advice?” asked Arch, and the man’s gaze grew pointed.
“Perhaps, if you'd accept some from me.” The stranger shifted from one foot to the other; something glinted in the open neck of his shirt, a gold pendant in the shape of an hourglass. “And not just concerning today’s races, either. I know you, young songcaster. You’ve just joined House Nineteen, from the Salt Lakes where they still believe in the old ways. You might feel like a fish out of water here in the city, and with good reason, but I think you’ll find there are folks who appreciate the old ways here as well. You might want to reach out to them, if ever you find a need.”
Arch’s eyebrows must have climbed all the way to his hat-line. Who this man was, how he knew anything about David Archuleta from the State of Utah, he had no idea. Still, there were people on either side of them, the day was warm and welcoming, and the man’s eyes were steady and kind.
“It’s advice I’ll bear in mind, sir,” he told the man, and then Cook shoved his way back to Arch’s side, a bottle of soda pop and a paper bag in hand. He did a double take, obviously recognizing Archuleta’s conversationalist.
“Why, Mr. Maroulis, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in daylight!” Cook stuck out a free hand, and the hatless man shook it.
“Nor I you, Mr. Cook. Now you see I don’t disappear in the sun, like one of Mr. Stoker’s vampyres. I see you’ve brought your young colleague out to see the sights!”
“Yes.” Cook gave Archuleta a sidelong smile. “Although I may be leading him somewhat astray. Tell me, Constantine, who d’you favor for the third race?”
“The Great Filly Race? Mr. Meyers’ Leonora Loring over Whitney’s Blue Girl. The time of the front runners are past, I feel; it’s time for the smart fillies to pull around.”
“I hope you're right, since my money’s on Loring,” said Cook. “I like to bet against the favorite, it’s better odds.”
“Always advisable to lay your money against the status quo,” said the man Cook had named Constantine Maroulis. He nodded to Archuleta. “It was good to meet you, David. I hope you enjoy your first day at the races. I’ll see you two around.”
“He owns a Bowery bar, and he’s one of the talented, except with no papers,” Cook told Archuleta, proffering his bottle of pop. “Here, try this: Coney Island Red Hots. Folks call them ‘hot dogs’ - they seem delicious.”
Archuleta took a tentative bite, and then a far more enthusiastic one. “These are delicious. Say, did you mention me to Mr Maroulis? Because he seemed to know who I was.”
Cook tried to articulate around his mouthful of Red Hot. “No, not at all. Seemed to know you in what way?”
Arch looked away. “Dunno, he knew my name,” he muttered, unsure as to how to tell Cook what Maroulis had insinuated. There was likely nothing there anyway. In an attempt to change the subject, he said, “Look, the horses are coming around!”
The races got off to a flying start: fillies and thoroughbreds with their dappled flanks and elegant hooves, the jockeys wearing their patrons’ bright colors. Cook’s eyes stayed trained on the track; he lifted his arm and hollered together with the crowd in celebration and then defeat.
Archuleta, high on the atmosphere of the racecourse and the sugar in the pop, couldn't keep his focus on the races. He kept looking at Cook, the flush on Cook’s wide, handsome face under the scruff of his beard, the careless spread of his shoulders framed by suspenders and casual shirt.
“This is the third race,” Cook murmured to Arch, his eyes bright. He pointed out the filly on which he’d laid money. “Look at how fine she is. The bookmakers were giving good odds on her. And they're off!”
Arch turned to the track. The filly which Cook had named Leonora Loring had pulled to an early lead, ahead of the favorite, Blue Girl, in the middle of the pack, who looked far and away the biggest and heaviest of the field. The nimble Loring drew clear as the fillies thundered around the bend into the stretch, the only horse at all near to her on the outside of the track at a clear disadvantage, and Cook threw a delighted grin at Archuleta - “We have this sewn up!”
Arch grinned back, and then a collective “Oh!” rose from the crowd. Arch craned his neck to see the favorite, Blue Girl, making a dash for it, flanks heaving, her rider plying the whip again and again. The favorite pulled forward - she passed another horse, then a second, a third, a fourth, closing the gap on the pacemaker -
- Cook was shouting, the veins in his neck standing out in sharp relief: “Come on, come on!” and Arch couldn’t breathe - the roar from the crowd was deafening -
…and in a thundering of hooves, Leonora managed to hold off Blue Girl and cross the finish line first by just a neck.
The tumult of cheers shook the grandstands. Cook whooped and hollered, and then flung his arms around Arch.
Archuleta felt Cook’s strong arms lift him off his feet, knocking his hat from his head. He felt the rasp of Cook’s beard against his cheek, the warm press of Cook’s body against him. He’d never felt the like before. He wanted to feel all those things every day for the rest of his life.
So of course he felt himself turn scarlet, and a spasm flail through his arms, and it was entirely understandable that Cook would let go.
When Cook set him on his feet again, Archuleta dropped to his knees and scrabbled on the ground for his hat. He straightened to Cook’s widely grinning face. Around them, cheering men were tossing their own hats in the air, or booing, the stands a tumult of noise. It was impossible to say or hear anything in the hubbub. Cook pulled Archuleta’s hat from his hands, set it on Arch’s head, and ran a lingering thumb over Arch’s cheekbone. He mouthed words which were snatched away by the surrounding noise.
“What?” Archuleta shouted back.
Cook put his mouth against Arch’s ear - Arch had to steel himself not to jerk automatically away. Cook’s breath was hot, and made his stomach twist, pleasantly. More than pleasantly. “I said, you’ve brought me luck! Come with me to fetch my winnings, and we’ll celebrate tonight.”
Archuleta followed Cook out of the crush of holidaymakers to the betting booths, where they discovered that there was some controversy over the Leonora Loring win - Mr. Whitney, the owner of Blue Girl, had lodged a complaint with the Jockey Club stewards, and until a full hearing was convened and determined on Monday, no wagers would be paid out.
“Easy come, easy go,” murmured Cook, grinning self-depreciatingly. “We’ll still celebrate on Monday after I collect on this wager, with dinner and the Opera!”
The races continued with the Ten Thousand Dollar Century Stakes and an even more controversial win by Watercolor, over the favorite, Blue. Come to think of it, Archuleta remembered that the strange man, Constantine Maroulis, had called this race, too.
When the races were over, Archuleta followed Cook and the crowd out of the club. The evening air had turned chilly. Cook looped his arm around Arch’s shoulders, pointed out the famous amusement park sights in the distance with his supposedly injured arm, and despite the fall night, Arch didn’t feel in the least bit cold.
When they boarded the return ferry, Archuleta thought he spotted a flash of Constantine Maroulis’ long dark hair. But when he turned and looked more closely, peering amid the steam and the running lights of the ferry and the stars overhead, the man wasn’t there after all.
*
House Nineteen, Monday, __ October 1901
“I said: it’s just the House box at the Opera. Cook wants to celebrate his race winnings, and thinks to do it with House business.”
Archuleta stared at his reflection in the glass and wished, not for the first time, that his hair was less rebellious. Wished, too, that Jason Castro wasn’t perched on the adjoining bed in the journeymen’s quarters, keeping up a running commentary on Arch’s preparations for the Monday evening entertainment.
Castro ran a hand through his perfect, Pre-Raphaelite locks. “If it was just business, Cook wouldn’t have invited you to dinner at his club, nor would he have sent along this coincidentally perfectly-fitting formal evening garb for you.”
Archuleta tugged self-consciously at the fine black dinner jacket and the starched shirt cuffs. "I think this is from the House wardrobe. Cook told me songcasters are sometimes asked to escort debutantes and society ladies out to balls. Not sure why, though."
Castro grinned. "I heard songcasters are known in York society for their many talents, and it's not just singin' or playin', either. Can't marry, so they're free to pay attentions to any lad or lass without strings attached." He leered at Archuleta. "You should be flattered - seems songcasters don't often court journeymen, we're usually just good for a tumble or two. They usually bond after they're licensed, like the Anthemic Two and Three. Hey, I heard Tiemann and Skib courted at the opera too!"
"Cook and I are not courting!" Archuleta said, blushing. "I don't even know what that means. You know back home, we never even talk about two men.” Never, although Archuleta had known from a very early age that he wasn’t interested in courting women, and was glad not to have to marry. “Here, though..."
"Here, in the Guild, where no wives or women live, it's a way of life. And Cook is quite a looker, you could do worse -" Castro ducked as Archuleta threw a book in his direction, before snatching up his borrowed coat and making a dignified exit.
*
The Union Club; the Metropolitan Opera House
Archuleta had told Castro that the evening was meant to be entirely innocent, just House business, but it wasn't that easy to pass this off as such, not when Cook had actually rung for the Nineteen carriage to take them to dinner, and personally handed Arch up into the carriage’s plush velvet interior.
Over the course of their dinner at The Union Club on Fifth and Fifty-Third, which comprised an exotic meal of roast mountain lamb with chestnut puree and Maryland duck with orange salad, they did speak of House business - how Arch's session with Cowell and the Anthemic that day had gone, how after Friday's incident they hadn't attempted the seeing spell again.
But despite such legitimate conversational topics, Cook kept looking meaningfully across the elaborate table at Archuleta, his gaze as heated and intent as Arch imagined a courting lover's would be. Arch watched in fascination as Cook fiddled with the heavy Asprey cutlery, smoothed over the starched tablecloth, fingers opening and closing restlessly as if he wanted to take hold of Arch's hand.
Despite himself, Archuleta was indeed as flattered as Castro had urged. It didn't hurt, also, that Cook was looking particularly elegant in his dinner attire, auburn head backlit by the light from the ornate fireplace of the adjacent smoking room.
Afterward, they sat high above the stage in the fabulous Metropolitan Opera House, under the flickering illumination of the candles in the House Nineteen red and gold box seats. Arch found that whenever he glanced up from the Faust score he’d borrowed from the Nineteen library, he was met by Cook's intense green eyes.
Master Cowell was in the box this night, together with some other songcasters from another House field band. Arch had asked him a little timidly if he'd had to wait long for the carriage to pick him from House, having been delayed by Cook and Arch's dinner. Cowell had said, "Not long," which was evidently British for annoyance of an extreme kind.
Cowell had then turned to Cook, his low voice cutting across the opening aria of the handsome veteran singer singing the role of Dr Faust this night. "We missed you at rehearsal today, Mr. Cook. The boys and Journeyman Archuleta could have used your talents."
Cook shrugged. "Had to collect my winnings at the Jockey Club," he said. "I'll come to rehearsal tomorrow, all right?"
Cowell made a harrumphing noise, and brought his theatre glasses to his nose. Thus dismissed, Cook rose and went to stand beside Archuleta.
"Enjoying this? Lerou is one of the finest performing tenors in the State of York."
"Oh, yes!" Archuleta looked out into the stage, where the Faust set - comprising a drapery of red baize in the foreground and an erection of vaulted bookcases, framed by a cunning backdrop of arched windows and well-lit by the footlights - currently suggested the Scholar’s Germanic library. He waved the score and its libretto at Cook. "This score is so interesting. I used to read opera and orchestral scores at home, not that I understood most of the French, but I've never seen a real opera staged. This is amazing."
"Well," said Cook, "They say this production is as good as any in Paris or Vienna, and the Met orchestra is excellent. You feel the power behind the strings? You could almost think there was talent there. And Mr. Lerou, his voice sounds almost like yours in the lower ranges."
Archuleta felt himself coloring. "You haven't heard me sing properly, Cook."
"That night you got off the Utah train? When you and Castro sang the trousers off the Maroon? We have no one in House that sings like you. You have such a lush timbre in your upper range - Lerou can’t match it: Maudites soyez vous, ô voluptés humaines. Maudites soient les chaînes Oui me font ramper ici-bas!”
Cook's rich voice slid effortlessly into the French lyric, and, before he could feel self-conscious about it, Arch found the place in the score and joined him: “Maudit soit tout ce qui nous leurre, Vain espoir qui passe avec l'heure, Rêves d'amour ou de combats.”
Their voices blended with the twenty strings in the orchestra pit, and Archuleta felt the thaumaturgy rise from his toes, curling through his body. Cook reached for his hand; Arch felt the jolt of connection flare between them.
They both fell silent. Archuleta felt a little unsteady on his feet - their sung lines had sparked so much power, he thought if they'd continued singing, they'd perhaps be capable of tearing down the fantastical domed roof.
"I was right," Cook said into the stillness of the box. His eyes gleamed under the candlelight. "There's no one else like you."
Archuleta wasn't sure what to say to this, what he could say, with Cook standing so close to him that Arch could see the auburn of Cook’s beard, the curve of his mouth. Fortunately, he was saved by someone in House colors bursting into the box.
Cowell rose to his feet, frowning crossly - it was the height of rudeness to enter a box in the middle of an aria. But when he read the outstretched note, he nodded, summoned Cook with a flick of his fingers, and both of them left the box. Arch thought they'd return shortly, but the minutes stretched and they didn't reappear.
Nevertheless, the first few acts of the opera held Arch’s full attention. He applauded wildly when the curtain fell for the interval.
At this juncture, another man entered their Opera box. He was tall and broad, elegant in evening dress, and entirely bald. He spoke quietly to one of the other songcasters for a space, and then went to stand beside Arch at the horseshoe-shaped edge.
"Mr. Archuleta, isn't it? My name is Christophe Daughtry. I'm new to York. I've just signed with Nineteen."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Arch said politely, and they shook hands. "I'm new to York, too! How are you enjoying the City?”
Daughtry shrugged. “I find it too new. You Americans are too quick to tear down the old and build new things too quickly. Your airships, your steam trains and trolleys, your skyscrapers. Your heavy industries and weapons of war, which the Guild helps build. I come from France, and I also see this growing willingness to throw away the old and embrace new things which we don’t fully understand. It troubles me.”
Archuleta frowned. He agreed with this; he vaguely remembered saying as much to Cook. “Oh, everything’s new in this city,” he said. “I guess it’s not really something everyone thinks about too much; it’s about progress, or something like it. But you’re right, I always worry that the technology will fail, and where would we be then?”
Daughtry’s blue eyes held his. “You’re a bright lad,” he said. “That is a most valid concern.”
The orchestra struck up again, signaling the imminence of the next act. Daughtry nodded toward the stage. "Take this very play, for instance. This is a story which is also told in Europe. Germany’s Goethe made this into a play: Faust: Eine Tragödie, and so did England’s Christopher Marlowe: The Tragedy of Doctor Faustus. It is a story about man's greed for knowledge and power, his aggrandizement of the Self. Faust makes a pact with the Devil. The Devil gives him knowledge and the keys to science and the mysteries of the world for twenty-four years, in exchange for his immortal soul. But such knowledge is quintessentially flawed, it comes with a price.”
As Daughtry spoke, the curtain rose on Act Four. Mephistopheles was importuning the virtuous soprano star in a church, of all places, bent on seduction as she knelt and pleaded for divine assistance.
Daughtry continued, "And in the end, what happens to Faust, to Man? The Devil comes back to claim his prize, and of course Faust pays the ultimate price for his greed. Faust feels remorse, then, of course. In his final soliloquy, he says, Ah Faust, thou hast now but one hour to live and then thou must be damned perpetually. Stand still, ye ever-moving spheres of heaven, that time will cease and midnight never come!"
Archuleta was finding it difficult to breathe. Daughtry's eyes shone in the dark.
"Like Faust, Man was not made to know all things. The Guild thinks it knows best, of course. Now that a great treasure has come, the Guild is trying to control it - but the treasure will master them. From the sunken depths, from the vast plains beyond our world, the Masters lie waiting."
Archuleta wasn't sure which was more unnerving: that he had no idea what Daughtry was saying, or that he thought he might have an inkling. A cavern, a bloody summoning, a two-headed bear god rising... He settled for, "How do you know about the Chronomicon?"
"You are bright." Daughtry nodded as if to himself. "Six weeks ago, in the Loire Valley, we discovered the other Chronomicon half, the European Half. And we uncovered the Silver Key in Germany, which is in the possession of Captain von Ahlen. He will come to the American States when the time is right."
"What do you and this … this Captain plan on doing with your half and this Key?" Archuleta knew he was out of his depth. "You had better talk to Lord Fuller, sir. This is beyond me, I'm just a journeyman, I don't know much at all."
Daughtry's blue eyes gazed steadily into Arch's. "You're a journeyman with extreme talent, Mr. Archuleta. The American Half found its way to you for a reason. I have indeed spoken to Lord Fuller, and to your Mr. Cook earlier, but I think it's you whom we may have to count on when the time is right."
"And who are you? What are you planning on doing?" Arch's voice sounded tinny to his own ears, struggling for clarity.
Daughtry said, "You'll know about us soon enough, Mr. Archuleta. We are known as the Anachronists, because we believe that the time of Man is past. Through the Chronomicon, we seek to right the proper flow of history. And when the time is right, you'll know, too - to the Temple will come the true King."
Daughtry nodded to Archuleta. "We'll meet again soon. Please send my regards to Mr. Cook." He sketched a salute at Arch, and then slid through the door.
For some reason, Archuleta was unable to concentrate on the Opera thereafter. The brocade and gold around him, the fine sets, the plush velvet and vaulted arches, all seemed hollow, made by men who knew little and understood less.
He didn’t stop shivering until Cook returned to the House box during the final act.
"That is the strangest damned thing," Cook muttered when Arch told him what had happened. He put his hand on Arch's shoulder. "It sounds like the man Tiemann and I met in the Silo last week before we were attacked.”
Cook frowned. “And, what he said about the true King… We just received word that the new King of England will be coming to town on a clandestine visit."
Prologue & Cast of Characters : Chapter One : Chapter Two : Chapter Three : Chapter Four : Epilogue, Footnotes & Full Cast list (spoilers)